Saralocks and the three chairs

The first morning I was here I decided I would have coffee outside in a park. So I bought a coffee before 8 am and headed toward Union Square, very near where I was staying. Soon my romantic notions of sipping at my coffee on a park bench in view of flowers fell to pieces. Firstly, the benches were actually all occupied. This wasn't immediately apparent from the street as most of them were occupied by sleeping/lounging homeless people. Or maybe they just were very into the "lived in" look and were, additionally, hygiene deficient. Either way, the benches were occupied. Secondly, other than a patch of scraggly impatiens, there were no flowers.

I eventually discovered a cluster of French park style tables and chairs around a statue on the other side of the park. A middle-aged, respectable looking (read--clean and coiffed) woman was sitting at one of these tables, reading the morning paper. I joined her. The first table I sat down at wasn't suitable because, well, it was filthy. It had something sort of thick, brown and sticky dried onto it. The second one I moved to was also unsuitable because of the unpleasant urine odor coming from the joint between the retaining wall and the sidewalk immediately behind it. Finally (sigh) the third was just perfect.

And so I began sipping happily at my coffee, making notes in my "cahier" about the passers-by, the sound of the leaves, the sound of...a picture being taken?? Over to my left, at quite a distance, and partially obscured by the undergrowth around a tree was a young man photographer, taking pictures in my direction.

I was disturbed. With my ankles still crossed I quickly pivoted to the right, so that my back would be turned toward him. Perhaps he was taking pictures of something else. And I returned to my morning musings and coffee.

Then the snapping started again. He had gotten closer and had come around to the front--his monster lens aimed directly at me--so that I could know make him out quite plainly. Film student type. Yes, you know the kind: dark jeans and white t-shirt and an odd and no doubt very symbolic tattoo visible on his forearm. With ear-rings.

Frustrated, and thoroughly uncomfortable, I began rifling in my bag with my head down, thinking about whether I would let this drive me from my carefully selected perch. When I heard the camera click for the third time, this time so close I could have snatched it from him, I decided quite instantly that yes, it would drive me from my precious table. I got up, with a little "hmph!" of deep annoyance, and Mister Tattooed Image Stealer came nearer to me to say, "oh, I'm so sorry if I disturbed you! I hope I didn't freak you out or anything."

I looked down at the ground, tossed my bag on my left shoulder and whisked past him, uttering only an ambiguous "yeah..."

On the train to Brooklyn I thought about it--how was a photograph more invasive than a simple memory? Was this man's taking pictures of me really so different from him staring and remembering me? Or just looking and remembering? Why did I feel so robbed? What would he *do* with the picture?

Just then a Muslim woman walked in, entirely cloaked in black from head to toe, everything covered in yards of fabric but a slim slot for her eyes. I could see that she was about 5'4, a bit rotund, and that at least the skin on the bridge of her nose was not unlike the color of olive oil. But mainly all I could see was the fabric on her. It was plain. There were no markings, embroidery, beading or patterns. And it seemed to me that she moved like a ghost through the world, seeing without being seen, absent from the memory of the world. After all, who can remember fabric alone?